Sunday, September 26, 2010

Back in the day, before there were more IP addresses than humans (I'm not actually sure if that's true), people used to write old-fashioned letters to complain. As a child, I would watch my mother craft really snidely-worded communications to restaurants, companies, hotels, shops and anyone who had somehow pissed her off with their inferior products and abysmal customer service. It was great. We were constantly receiving complimentary chocolates, potato chips, discount coupons and refunds in the mail.

My mother was a special case, because the majority of us would just be infuriated for about ten minutes then just shrug it off and perhaps just bitch about it to a few friends. But now that we all seem to be surgically attached to our smart phones, businesses have to be really carefully. As soon as you do anything wrong, people are going to start tweeting that shit to people.

This tweet is why everyone who runs a business has to treat everyone well. Don't go around pissing of customers and expect to lose just that single disgruntled person's custom.

PS @James_North is an excellent producer and musician based in Brisbane, Australia. Follow him. On Twitter, not in real life because that would be creepy.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The other day, my boyfriend parked next to a Jeep that had the number plate "JE EEEP". It's like "JEEP" was taken and the owner figured it was absolutely necessary to have a variant of the car make's name on the number plate. Because, you know. People won't know what car it is otherwise.

I dared my man to key "LOOOOSERR" into the side of his car but he was a bit chicken.

I think Jeeps are a lovely mode of transportation. But I have eyes. I can tell it's a Jeep.

Living in a swanky Fitzroy apartment complex can be quite entertaining. There are 24 of us boxed into little shiny studio apartments, and despite this proximity there ain't a whole lot of communication. Sure, there is odd half-embarrassed nod when we pass each other in the hallway, or mumbling thanks when another resident holds the front security door open when I'm battling my groceries. But when it's comes to words, my apartment block likes to keep things on paper.

Sometime last week, someone left an office chair in the front vestibule of the building and it disappeared a few hours later. According to the unwritten rule of North Melburnians, if you see something and there's no moving truck, it's yours. I've gotten tons of books and crockery that way, and it's a fine tradition I've passed along by leaving my totally re-usable furniture for others to enjoy.

So imagine my surprise when someone wrote a rather nasty note on the front door, along the lines of "PLEASE RETURN MY CHAIR. IT ISN'T YOURS. YOU STOLE IT. I NEED IT." A few hours later, the neglected chair was returned to it's original spot where it has stayed for another two days.

Now the chaise has become a notice board for fiery messages intended for its owner:

Monday, September 20, 2010

So it's my birthday. Somehow the people at work got wind of it (likely because some of them are on my Facebook), and bought me a lovely, but GIANT, chocolate babka. It's about the size of a small roast chicken, which may not sound that large except 1. it's chocolate babka, the food that is literally made to bypass your digestive tract and lodge itself between your fleshy thighs, and 2. no one in the office wanted any! Perhaps because they knew about the whole added-thigh-junk thing.

Surely it's a bit cruel to make a girl like me eat an entire chocolate babka on her own. But hey, if the rumours are true, you can't put on weight on your birthday. Yeah? Yeah. Nom nom nom.

* Photos of cake to come soon.** Photos of obese Paige to come a few days later.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

According to this very unscientific-looking website, moving house is supposed to be the third most traumatic event that can be experienced, just falling short of bereavement and divorce. I'm just about to move into my tenth home. It almost seems like I change my abode as often as I change my smoke detector batteries. Bring on death and divorce*, I must be a pro at this traumatic life thing.

Anyway, enjoy the following video but replace the words "house of fun" with "house of traumatic life events".

* This is a joke. If you're reading this God**, please don't take this literally and give me death and divorce. This was for the lulz.** Oh that's right, I don't believe in God.*** These asterisks are actually attached to anything, but check out a more realistic list of stressful life events here.

There seems to be a weird taboo amongst females when it comes to buying condoms. Girls desperately hide their prophylactics between their broccoli and tea bags, in hopes that the checkout person won't notice. In reality, the pimply dude on the register probably wouldn't even give a fuck if you were buying an ironically-named family-size box of condoms, lube, enemas and four giant cucumbers. He just wants you to go away so he can stealthily check Facebook on his mobile under the counter while the supervisor is in the deli section.

And really, what's there to be ashamed about? If I see someone buying condoms, I want to give them a massive high five and congratulate them because they're about to get laid. And extra kudos for practicing safe sex.

The only exemption to this is if you're a twelve-year-old whore, in which case I hear that KidZone comics are great for concealing your adult purchases from our disapproving eyes. Shame on you. You don't even have pubes yet.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

The other day I was in the shower - where all my best thinking tends to happen - and I was wondering if anyone had ever set up a private Twitter account with no followers or made a blog and didn't tell anyone about it. It would be so rewarding, being able to just fucking rant on about anything without fear of repurcussion or judgment. But also a bit sad.

Here's my dilemma: I have a degree in psychology, and I'm obsessed with the internet. Pretty much every form of social media networking seems to fuck us up in one way or another, and I make my living off social media networking.

Facebook creates stalkers who spend many dirty hours flicking obsessively through your photos and trying to absorb as much information about your boyfriend/girlfriend (fingers crossed, their profile is private). MySpace has bred a generation of emos who love emoticons and think that being bicurious (and filming yourself licking your same sex best friend's nipples) is okay. For the non-scensters, MySpace is just brimming with sycophantic fans who want to post glittery comments about how great you are. Formspring seems to bring out our nosy, evil twin and Twitter has turned us all into obnoxious wise-cracking arseholes with more one-liners than our feed can handle. And blogs have turned us all into expert commentators on everything (yes, I do see the irony).

Sunday, September 12, 2010

While that isn't very surprising (I seem to offend lots of people with my personality and fucking potty mouth), what is surprising is that I've barely interacted with said person. I can honestly say that the sum of all of our real-life conversations all year would probably tally about two minutes all up. I don't even have this person's phone number and have never made small talk over Facebook Chat. I have never knowingly wronged this person, yet I have managed to make this person absolutely hate my guts. That's talent.

It's a very strange feeling. Either I have perfected my "Please Hate Me" vibe to be so efficient that I can make a distant acquaintance loathe me in the space of one hundred and twenty seconds... or this person is stalking me on Facebook and finds my personality and persona repugnant. Or perhaps someone is spreading rumours about me.

Should I be insulted that this person is basing their intense dislike on something really arbitrary? Should I be complimented that they are possibly stalking me, and I have somehow made enough of an impact to raise an emotion, albeit a negative one?

Thursday, September 9, 2010

So I was wandering down Acland Street in St. Kilda the other day, sipping my Egg Flip Big M like it was no body's business (except maybe National Foods, which owns Big M) and some dude starts hollering at the top of his voice, "EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!"